


Bringing Him Back

by withoutaplease



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 10:20:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5413160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withoutaplease/pseuds/withoutaplease
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary:  A nightmare wakes Sam and reader.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bringing Him Back

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Angst-flavoured smut (Smut-flavoured angst?)  
> Author’s note: Just a little something. Feels courtesy of the front end of S11.

               He jolts awake next to you with a small, hoarse cry, interrupting your own tenuous sleep.  You roll over to face him, and see his eyes are wide, fixed on some invisible point far beyond the ceiling.  His breaths are sharp and quick, flaring his nostrils and hitching in his chest.  “Sam?” you ask, gently, laying your hand delicately across his chest, a pang stabbing briefly in your own as he tenses up under your touch.  You let your hand rest over his heart, feeling it race beneath clammy skin, until his muscles start to relax again.  

               He doesn’t answer you.  In the dimness of the bedroom, you can see that his lips are moving slightly.  It’s more sigh than whisper, barely words at all, but you hear them.  “You’re fine,” he repeats. “You’re fine, you’re fine, you’re fine . . .”

               “Sam,” you say again, louder this time.  His lips still.

               He takes a deep breath and then exhales slowly before he speaks.  When he does, he says only, “Yeah,” without affect, his expression blank, if slightly pained.

               “Come on back,” you tell him, softly, and his lips curl up in a tight, momentary smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.  He lifts his hand, though, and places it over yours on his chest, letting your fingers interlace.  Beneath your hands, his heartbeat begins to slow again.

               The pang in your chest settles into a kind of hollow ache as you watch him churn it around in his mind.  You don’t have to ask – you don’t _want_ to ask – what he was dreaming about.  Getting him out had been a miracle, in the literal sense of the word, but bringing him back? There were no spells or incantations or flashes of divine light for that one.  Nothing for it at all except time and careful work, precious little of which you could take off his shoulders.  For you, it was mostly just this; sleepless nights, hollow aches, and trying to stay solid so he knows that you’re real.  Trying not to fall apart while he puts himself back together.

               Eventually, he closes his eyes and clasps his fingers tightly around your hand.  When he opens them again, he turns his head to look at you.  You smile.  He reaches for you with his free hand to pull you in close to him.  You roll onto your belly, your side pressed in tight against his, and swing one of your legs over, so that you’re entwined.  Propped up on one elbow, you let the fingers of your other hand wind through his hair.  You stroke without pulling, unhurriedly, letting your fingernails graze lightly against his scalp, until his eyelids flutter closed and he tilts his head toward your hand and his breathing becomes deep, rhythmic, relaxed.  His skin is cool pressed against you, but the roots of his hair are damp with the same sweat that’s beaded across his forehead. 

               Without stopping the movement of your fingers in his hair, you dip down to press a soft and slightly open kiss to his brow.  When he doesn’t flinch, you add more, letting your lips brush across his eyelids, the tip of his nose, the corners of his mouth.   He’s passive at first when you kiss him full on the lips, accepting but not returning, and your mind flashes briefly to a fairy tale, a beauty you are desperately trying to awaken the only way you know how.  It isn’t that easy, you know that it can’t be, but doesn’t he take hold of your head just as you’re about to pull away, and kiss you back, and wet your lower lip with a slip of his tongue.  You smile into his lips, you can’t help it, and he’s maybe not ready to smile that way yet, but his tongue carefully mapping out the inside of your mouth is the most himself he’s seemed since . . . since.

               He moves his hands from your head to the hem of your tank top, fingertips almost fumbling as he slides it up your torso.  Your lips break contact long enough for him to lift it off over your head, and you hold your forehead against his as he grazes his fingers back down along your collarbone, along the sides of your waist, over the swell of your breasts.  You sigh when his thumbs brush across your nipples, resisting the urge that calls from your hips to straddle him then and there, reminding yourself that this isn’t about you, this is about what he needs, even as familiar warmth and wetness pool between your legs while he reads your skin like it’s a love letter written in braille.

               But then his hands are in your hair again, and he’s pulling you back to his lips, and there’s little uncertainty in the way he’s kissing you now.  You take it as an invitation to move up on top of him, letting your bodies slot together in the old, accustomed way.  His skin beneath your searching fingers is completely smooth, pristinely unblemished, but you handle it with care all the same, suspecting it doesn’t feel quite as untroubled from the inside.  Still, he’s warm again, and responsive, and _present_. Then, when you feel him stiffening in his sweatpants, pressed against your thigh, the urging of your hips is beyond denial.  You roll them against him, and he rolls to meet you, and the friction makes you both gasp.

               It isn’t urgent or desperate, the way his thumbs hook under the sides of your panties to slip them off your hips, or the way you curl your fingertips under his waistband to relieve him of his sweats.  It’s slow and careful and deliberate, skin searching to press against more skin, kisses placed as tokens along the way.  Your arms and legs and tongues tangle together in search of intimacy more than leverage, and even when he slides inside you, and you’re slick and throbbing with need, and you’re both moaning when he’s hilted, it’s not about satisfaction.   It’s about being anchored, being here, now, together, letting everything else fall away.  You move and press and grind in a slow, erratic rhythm, neither of you chasing after anything except the relief of being here like this again at all, that such a thing is possible after all hope seemed lost.   You moan his name when you come, in deep, rolling waves that clench themselves around him while you shudder.  He’s grunting his reply moments after, and for an instant, as his hips stutter and his fingertips dig imprints into your skin, there’s nothing on his face except for pleasure. For that instant, he’s truly free.

                              After, he keeps his arms clasped tightly around you, holding you close against him as he catches his breath.  He’s trembling, and you lay your head against his chest, letting him hold onto you, letting him stay entangled as long as he needs.  Staying solid. Taking what little you can off his shoulders.  Bringing him back.


End file.
